Supremely Blest
by Pariaritzia
Summary: "I fear," I remarked one evening, as we sat before the fire, I with my infant to my breast and my husband comfortably settled in the armchair opposite mine, "that our son resembles more a changeling than a baby."


**This was absurdly difficult to write. More so than Austen, more so than Heyer. But I love Jane Eyre, so I've done my best.**

**I don't own anything. Not even the book (or the title of this fic: "supremely blest" comes from the book).**

**Also, the idea of "the tangibility of lace" was inspired by one of ndnickerson's fics (on AO3), which I won't mention specifically because of its higher rating. **

**Bonne lecture.**

"I fear," I remarked one evening, as we sat before the fire, I with my infant to my breast and my husband comfortably settled in the armchair opposite mine, "that our son resembles more a changeling than a baby."

"How could he be otherwise," Mr Rochester answered, not without seriousness, "with a fairy for a mother and a Vulcan for a father? Such ancestry would surely alter the customary workings of the human form." He leaned forward in his chair, his formerly gloomy aspect suffused with the contented glow it so often wore nowadays, and eyed the child and me with no little satisfaction. "Jane, I do believe you are clad in the colour of your folk."

I glanced down at my frock, a pale green affair with a frivolous quantity of lace at the collar. My Lowood habits still having not entirely left me, such frippery seemed on the verge of the absurd; but my Edward—both grown and infant—loved the tangibility of lace, and to deny either of them anything would be to deny my very self.

"But of course," I replied, gently nudging little Edward so that he would not fall asleep in the middle of his meal. "I must be recognisable to the baby. At his age it would be difficult to discern between fairy and female; the green may assist his judgement."

"Or confound it further," countered Mr Rochester, leaning back in his chair again, "for he would be bewildered by such a fairy's choice of husband. Doubtless he will search in vain for a man in green: fair, slight-built, and delicate of manner."

"Perhaps," I allowed, as the infant began to doze off once more. I pulled him away from my breast and refastened the front of my frock. "The disappointment should pass quickly, however, once he sees what a remarkable father he possesses."

"Remarkable, indeed! Rough-hewn, overbearing, dark—and mutilated to boot!"

"Yes," I said softly, as little Edward nestled into the crook of my neck, one small fist clutching the lace at my collar, "but strongly-built, protective of his family, pure in his intentions—and whole in heart and soul 'to boot.'"

Three years ago he would have scoffed at such an assessment; but he was more at ease now with affection, and smiled instead. For a moment we sat in companionable silence. The baby fell properly asleep, his little mouth puckered. I touched his small nose, wondering if it would one day be as willful as his father's.

"But Janet," said that particular personage suddenly, "you never did tell me why you supposed our child to be of another world. Has he exhibited unearthly qualities, perhaps? The same quiet, piercing observance of his mother? or the sly, vexatious smile?"

He chuckled at his joke, and another day I would have smiled as well; but with my babe at my shoulder and my husband before me I was in an arch sort of spirit.

"No, Edward, not at all," I said, quite solemnly. "It is only that he has the same unfortunate quality as his father."

Mr Rochester's mouth twisted. "I have a notion the explanation will be unflattering on the part of that charming individual," he grumbled.

"It is only that," I repeated, "the infant has an appearance of which an improvement is 'past the power of magic.'"

"Hmph!" He scowled, shifted darkly in his chair, though all in play, I knew. "Witch as you are, you cannot remedy everything."

"Careful, Edward, or you shall confuse the babe further. Is his mother a fairy, or a witch?"

"A nymph, I daresay," he added, though with the flicker of a smile. He reached out his good arm. "Come, Janet! I wish my family close; my cup runneth over, and I need you to check the flow."

"There is no need for that," I replied, as I moved to sit in his lap, the baby snugly tucked between his chest and mine. At this proximity, and with the fire blazing brightly by us, the baby's face and mine were visible to Mr Rochester, a fact evident by the way his own lit up. "You may let the flow run as long as it likes; only one thing can stop it, and God will grant us the strength to endure it until we may meet again."

"He has already granted me so much," murmured my husband, running a reverent hand over the child's forehead. "I am half afraid he will take everything from me someday, without warning! but I suppose I ought to trust in Him, Jane, and in you?"

"Always," I replied, leaning my forehead on his. He kissed the corner of my mouth, the bristles of his moustache tickling my cheek. "Always."


End file.
